No Other Will Do (Ladies of Harper's Station #1)(88)

Clearing out the town might appease Angus and keep Ned safe, but Emma had no such guarantees. If she stumbled across a family reunion between Flora and her husband, she had seen the outlaw’s face—which meant she could identify him, testify against him, and send him back to prison. The minute Angus no longer needed her to assure the town’s cooperation, Emma would be dead.

Mal swung his rifle strap over his shoulder and handed Emma’s weapon to Flora. Without a word, he gently fitted his arms beneath the battered woman and lifted her off the ground, cradling her against his chest.

“First things first,” he grunted. “Let’s get you back to town so Maybelle can tend your injuries. Then we’ll figure out what to do about Angus.”

Malachi stood and carried Flora out of the woods. As his legs worked, so did his mind. There had to be a way to save the woman he loved. No other option was tenable. His angel would not be dying at that devil’s hands.





33


Thanking God for hot summers that brought shallow rivers, Malachi slogged through the muddy, knee-high water with Flora in his arms. His legs strained against the river’s resistance. His lower back throbbed. His arms burned from the effort of holding Flora as still as possible. But he kept on. One step. Then another. Not stopping. Ignoring the pain. Keeping Emma’s face in his mind.

Climbing up the embankment on the opposite side of the river nearly did him in, though. The grade brought him to his knees. His weary muscles cried out for him to stop. To rest. To replenish his strength. But Emma couldn’t afford for him to stop. Her life hung in the balance. So Mal gritted his teeth and grunted his way back to his feet. He redistributed Flora’s weight, clenched his jaw, and took another step.

“You’ve carried me far enough, Mr. Shaw,” Flora said, her voice as tired sounding as his body felt. “You can send someone back for me.”

“Emma wouldn’t want me to,” he ground out, taking another step.

“It’ll be faster,” Flora insisted. “And I’ll be safe enough on this side of the river. You can leave one of the rifles with me.”

Malachi halted, torn. She was right. It would be faster. But would it be better? What if he handed over the rifle and Flora shot him in the back? His gut told him she was no killer, but her betrayal was too fresh for him to trust her completely.

So he took another step. Then another.

“Stubborn fool,” Flora muttered.

Mal grimaced. She was probably right. He wasn’t sure he could make it much farther. If he could just get around the bend, maybe he’d be close enough to town to fire off a signal shot. Two quick rounds from his rifle should bring help. If they were heard.

Two percussive blasts rent the air.

Mal blinked. Had he just thought those shots into existence? Of course not. He must have imagined . . .

“Over here! They’re over here!”

Mal jerked toward the shout. He hadn’t imagined that. He glanced back toward the water and nearly wept.

Ulysses was charging toward him, Andrew on his back. Water sprayed around them, catching the sunlight. Mal had been so focused on putting one foot in front of the other and getting around the bend, that he’d not noticed the horse and rider on the opposite side of the river.

And Andrew wasn’t alone. Others now rounded the curve. Women running toward them, some in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, others in more practical garb. All carrying weapons. All ready to do battle.

And Betty Cooper, bless her sensible heart and old knees, drove a wagon with Maybelle Curtis and her doctoring bag riding shotgun.

The Lord had sent the cavalry.



Flora tried to hide from the women, turning her face into Mal’s shoulder, but it was an impossible task. Mal did his best to smooth things over by explaining as much as he could, especially to a hard-faced Betty as he neared the wagon.

“She’s been severely beaten. By her husband. He’s got control of her son.” Mal met Betty’s gaze. “That’s why she did what she did.”

“You don’t gotta explain it to me, Shaw.” Betty clambered down from the wagon and moved to the back to let the tailgate down. “I got eyes.”

Mal sat on the edge of the wagon bed and carefully laid Flora on a pallet of blankets Maybelle had arranged. The midwife climbed into the wagon bed beside Flora and started clucking over the woman’s injuries. Flora ducked her head and hid her face with her arm.

“None of that hiding, now, Flora,” Betty said, gently taking hold of the injured woman’s arm and peeling it away from her face. “Esther showed me your letter. We all know you were in a tough spot. Scared for your boy and unable to sway your man from his course. God never blessed me with a child, but if he had, there’s no telling how far I’d go to protect him.”

Tears rolled down Flora bruised cheeks. “But your chickens . . .”

Betty sniffed once and cleared her throat, her voice coming out a little thicker than before. “Yeah, well. I done forgave you for that when I read your instructions to Emma to use your bank funds to buy new ones. As much as I cared for them ornery birds, that’s all they were. Birds. People are more important.”

“Emma!” Henry’s strident shout pierced the conversation.

Mal turned, dread weighing heavily in his gut. Henry and Bertie were running up to the wagon as fast as their fifty-year-old legs would carry them.